Rosemary and Pansies/The Balladist Parson

by Bertram Dobell

THE BALLADIST PARSON

I'll sing you a song of a Parson to-night,
Who in black-letter broadsides doth chiefly delight:
You'll not find another so learnèd as he
In all that relates to song, ballad and glee.

His head is a storehouse of curious lore
About old romances and ballads of yore;
He delights in them hugely and carols them too,
And can write them besides when he's in the right cue.

Of course he is poor, for he never could stoop
In formality's bands his fine spirit to coop:
So by patrons and squires he's been left in the lurch—
He's too much of a man to get on in the church!

But that doesn't vex him—he cares not for pelf,
And he thinks of all else ere he thinks of himself;
With his ballads and books he's more happy, I ween,
Than if they had made him a Bishop or Dean.

There's one dogma he finds very hard to believe—
He can't think that sin was created through Eve:
Like a knight of old times he'll her honour attest,
And Adam, he thinks, was a sneak at the best.

For the lasses he's ever a greeting and smile,
And to see a sweet face hell go many a mile:
Towards them he lets no distinction appear,
If it's dairymaid Nell or my Lady De Vere.

I grant yon he's done some odd things in his time,
Which would sound very drolly if hitched into rhyme:
Folks can him eccentric, bat all win admit
His heart is quite sound though they question his wit.

Then here's to the Parson, and may he live long
To cheer us with mirthful discoursing and song;
May his ridicule long gall the puritan gang,
And as for his enemies let them go hang!

ENCORE VERSES

Since with kindly applause you this ditty receive,
I'll sing you a verse or two more, by your leave,
For such a good subject but seldom is found,
In whom wit, mirth and learning so greatly abound.

He's a right down good fellow, as I have made dear,
And I wish that we had him in company here,
For the night then would spin on with laughter and song,
And we unto morn should our revels prolong.

Then let's chorus "A jolly good fellow is he"
(A better you'll go a month's march ere you see;)
And wind up with hip! hip! hurrah! three times o'er—
And now I'll leave off, or you'll think me a bore.